


Last Chance Gulch

by murdur



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8972476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdur/pseuds/murdur
Summary: Sif has been chasing the bandit Loki across the West. Can she convince him to stop running?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lite_Reads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lite_Reads/gifts).



> I took your Western AU prompt idea and tried to run with it. Hope you enjoy the holiday season!

Sif breathes in the cold winter air, steeling her resolve before pushing the doors of the saloon open. She had been on her way back across town from the courthouse when the sound of the music drifting out of the bar caught her ear. Something familiar in the tune had pulled her onto the porch. Inside, she follows the melody coming from the piano against the back wall, latching onto the music over the loud bellows and laughs of the rowdy patrons. Nearly all of her small town seems to be inside on this Christmas Eve, cowboys, miners and farmers all spending their money on food, drink, cards and women.

None of their disorderly behavior causes her to pay much mind, though. Sif strides across the wooden floor, the jangle of her spurs nearly inaudible over the commotion. And that _music_....she knows this song. 

She reaches for her gun, pushing back her coat and revealing the badge fastened to her holster. Smoothly, she draws her pistol and pushes the barrel firmly against the back of the piano player’s head.

“One wrong move, and I’ll kill you.” The tick of metal emphasizes her warning as she cocks the gun.

Four hundred and twenty-one days. Sif breaks that number down into hours, minutes, seconds. Four hundred and twenty-one days she’s been chasing this outlaw across the Gulch, the valley, the whole territory, and beyond. And here he is, bold as brass playing the piano not five hundred yards from her jailhouse.

Long fingers hover over the ivory keys of the piano, the melody coming to an abrupt halt, and the dark haired man laughs, tilting his head so half of his pale face is shadowed by the brim of his hat. He grins up at her.

“It’s good to see you too, Sif.”

Her heart hammers in her chest, but her voice does not waver.

“Get up, Loki. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

He complies, rising slowly from the piano bench with hands by his ears in surrender, and turns to face her fully, but she doesn’t trust him farther than she could throw him. The crowd had quieted when the music came to such a stop, and now nearly every drunken pair of eyes are on them, watching her begin to frisk him.

“You’ve got some nerve,” she growls, her left hand holding her pistol steadily aimed at his chest, her right hand brusquely digging beneath his long black coat. She removes both of his fine revolvers from the holster slung around his hips and sets them on the piano bench. Across the saloon, someone wolf whistles.

“I do believe they rent rooms by the hour upstairs, Deputy,” Loki stage whispers. “If you wanted a bit more privacy.”

A drunkard near them guffaws. She ignores the intoxicated man, continuing her search and pulling a wad of money and a spring action blade from Loki’s pockets. Pulling the handcuffs from her belt, she secures his wrists together and shoves his belongings into her own long coat. Someone in the crowd boos, while a few others jeer her action.

“Sorry, boys,” Loki raises his bound wrists up high. “The jig is up! Looks like you’ll have to buy your own drinks the rest of the evening.” The bar erupts in laughter and cheers.

Sif pushes her gun into his back, trying not to grit her teeth. “Let’s go, Loki.”

 

Loki is a bandit, a downright scoundrel. But that doesn't mean that civilians have totally forsaken his character. The man she leads outside and down the snowy road towards the jailhouse has built quite the reputation for himself. Absurd stories of heroism and daring were mingled with tales of his crimes, stories that Sif had no doubt were fabricated by Loki himself. For many folks, though, fact and myth are difficult to separate.

Highway robbery was his specialty, although bootlegging whiskey across the Northern border was also on his resume. He was not subtle in his crimes, but he was slippery, always finding a way of avoiding capture and ensuring some dumb lackey would take the fall in his place. Legend has it though, that the outlaw was not totally selfish with his loot, and that he gave generously to the local churches, business establishments and to struggling families across the territory. Few, them, were willing to give him up to the law, no matter how many WANTED posters she spread across the land.

But finally, she thinks as she ushers him into the jail cell and swings the barred door behind him, here he is, caught at last. She blows out a long breath, satisfied with the click of the lock on the cell, and puts her key ring back on her belt.

On the other side of the bars, Loki raises his manacled hands towards her in question, but she just shakes her head. Taking a step back she fully inspects the man standing before her. His hair is dark, worn longer than she has ever seen, but his face is smooth and freshly shaven. His clothes are worn and a bit frayed, but he still takes care in his appearance, with the deep green of his waist coat standing stark against the white undershirt and complementing his expensive leather long coat. She spots the chain of his pocket watch glistening in the lamp light of the dim jailhouse. Loki always was meticulous about his appearance, and it seems that life on the run has not changed that.

She has been chasing him since the very start. It has become her personal mission, although not her sole responsibility in this booming town, to intercept him. Finding him has been what fuels her to get out of bed every morning. To chase, digging her spurs into her horse to ride faster, ride farther to all the towns, camps, and hideaways she can get to. There were times when she nearly had him, watching his retreating back slip out some side door of a saloon, leaving confusion and chaos in his wake.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Am I not welcome in my old hometown? That hurts, Sif.” He looks at her with those piercing eyes. Something about them is wilder now, maybe crueler.

“Not when you’re one of the most wanted criminals in all of the West, no.” She folds her arms across her chest.

He shrugs, leaning against the wall of the cell as if the whole ordeal of being locked up disinterests him. “Maybe I just wanted to put on a show for the good townsfolk. Maybe I just wanted to rile you up. The place must be painfully boring without me.”

“I would prefer the usual drunk and disorderly over your brand of mischief. You’re about as welcome as a snake in my boot.” 

“Come now, Sif. I know you better than that. Dullness has never appealed to you. That’s why you’ve been following me around the countryside.”

That sets her off and she bangs her fist against the bars of his cell, causing a loud clang.

“You do not know me. Not any more.” Loki carefully watches her but his face doesn’t lose its arrogant smile at her outburst. She takes a breath and lowers her voice. She won’t let him have such power over her anymore. “Besides. I’m not chasing you for me,” she lies, and almost believes herself. “I’m doing it for them.”

That cracks Loki’s mask, and he straightens up from the wall. “For who? For Thor? I want nothing to do with that hulking imbecile. Sheriff Thor has been even more inept than you at tracking me down, _Deputy_. Curious how you came to hold this position, is it not?” Loki’s eyes flash hot and angry with his brother’s name in his mouth. The mention of Thor always could get his dander up.

They grew up together on the outskirts of town, the three of them. Odin, Loki’s father, had great success in the first wave of gold-panners to settle this area, naming it Last Chance Gulch as the family was out of provisions and down on their luck in the harsh winter and took one final gamble in the valley, and struck it rich. Odin became one of the wealthiest and most influential settlers in the whole territory. He purchased large amounts of land and bought himself a law degree, and finally settling into the position of mayor. Born into much less wealth and privilege, Sif’s mother died when she was but an infant, and her father moved them out West to chase the promises of the frontier. Her father homesteaded not far from Odin’s enormous mansion and did backbreaking work to earn their keep.

“You know damn well I earned my position in this town,” Sif snarls. It was far from easy, becoming a female officer in these parts. “Thor had nothing to do with it. And I haven’t been chasing you just for Thor, but for her too. Especially for your mother.”

Some of the heat goes out of Loki’s eyes at that, and he looks away from her gaze.

Loki and his mother Frigga were close, truly cut from the same cloth. Sif herself had practically been raised by the kind woman. When she was just knee high to a lamb and quite the ragamuffin girl, Frigga would invite Sif in for supper and stories around the fireplace after Sif arrived on the porch from spending the morning wrestling with Loki and Thor in the fields, eyes bruised black and with mud caked into her ratty dresses and wild braids. Frigga doted on them all, helping them learn to ride horses together, and convincing Odin to teach them all how to shoot the family rifles. But with Loki she took extra care, teaching him piano and card tricks for long, loving hours and asking him to read to her deep into the night.  Knowing her love for him, it feels like a cold knife between his ribs when he speaks.

“She’s not my mother.” His voice is low, full of a conviction that rings hollow.

Loki left his privileged life once the truth was uncovered that he did not belong to Frigga and Odin by blood. As an infant, he was left out on a rock in the snow to die by poor immigrants who had moved on from the valley when the harsh winter had hit.

When the truth came out, Loki had nearly gone mad with hurt and rage and had fled from his house and ran headlong into this current life of living outside the law. Sif had been there that night, had seen him cast his past, his family, her, to the side and run - but not before the massive fight with his brother Thor that had culminated in coming to blows. It had been a terrible, heartbreaking mess that had nearly sent Odin to an early grave from the stress of it.

It was an awful secret to have been kept from him, for certain, but Sif had difficulty pitying Loki and his choices overmuch. Frigga and Odin had taken him in, saving his life and raising him as their own, and they had provided him with a life better than most could ever dream of. But he was throwing it all away. Throwing his family away... throwing _her_ away. And for what?

“She sure as hell is your mother.” Sif jabs her finger in his direction. “What else would you call the woman who loved and kept you despite how god damn vexing you have always been determined to be?”

This gets his back up,riled, and he shouts at her. “What exactly do you want from me, Deputy?!”

“To stop running!” She spreads her hands in front of her, reigning herself in and speaking softer. “Give up this confounded existence. Come home.”

“For what? What is left for me in this world, what home is there besides a jail cell?”

That makes her blood burn hot again. He damn near broke her heart the night he ran, and she wants to shake him now. Why must he be so maddening? “Give it up for Thor! For Frigga! For-for me!”

That quiets him. He appraises her, taking a long hard look. “I thought you gave up on me already, Sif.” He fidgets, bringing his bound hands up to remove his hat and to push long fingers back through his inky black hair.

Sif takes a step forward, imploring. “There’s still good in you, Loki. I know there is. I’ve heard the stories of what you do with your loot,” she searches his face, but his eyes are cast away from her. “All is not lost, there is still hope, still time to do right.”

He doesn’t respond, turning his hat in his hands before casting it off to the side of his cell.

“You know, not everyone has written you off as a lost cause.” She tilts her head.

He snorts in disbelief, scuffing the heel of his black boot against the dirt floor. She continues

“And it’s not just your family. Plenty of people are apparently quite fond of you, _Silvertongue_.” She watches his reaction, his head snapping back up to meet her eyes at the nickname, a wicked, almost embarrassed smile creeping across his face. “Oh yes, I’ve heard all about you.”

Sif rolls her eyes, thinking back to the first time she heard that nickname. The woman Sif was showing the WANTED poster to had actually blushed. She’d referred to Loki as a “gentleman bandit”, who presented himself differently than the average dirty, uncouth robber. Oh yes, she described him as witty and handsome with the emerald green handkerchief covering half his face, telling Sif that he hardly needed the threat of his drawn gun, but that he was so charming and sweet talking, silver-tongued, that she had handed her jewels and money over without protest. Sif would hardly believe the story if she hadn’t heard it repeated across towns and victims.

Loki’s smile spreads and it makes Sif’s heart flutter with hope, moving forward to place her hands on the bars of the cells. She speaks earnestly. “There’s still time to make things right and make something good of yourself. I know you were fixin’ to go to a fancy law school back east before,” she falters but pushes on. “But what if you joined me? Joined us. We could use your knowledge of the mountains and hideouts to bust more outlaws. You could be a hero.”

He slides his boots across the dirt, lifting his hands to cover hers where they rest on the metal bar. “Dear, foolish Sif,” he speaks with pity in his eyes, “You should have forsaken me like my parents did long ago.”

She shakes her head and pulls her hands out from under his. “You’re headed for the gallows, Loki. Thor and I can’t protect you much longer, we’re not the only one’s pursuing you. One of these days you’re going to have to own up to what you’ve done.”

She pushes her coat away from her hips and retrieves her ring of keys from her belt, nodding towards the horizontal gap cut into the bars. At hip height, the opening is just big enough for a hand to pass a plate of bread through to a prisoner. Loki steps up to the gap and slides his hands out, waiting with the long chain dangling. Finding the right key, Sif undoes the left  handcuff, letting it fall from his wrist.

Quick as a flash, Loki swings the long chain up and behind her, deftly catching the loose side in his free hand. He pulls the chain quick across her back, pulling her to slam against the metal bars. But Sif is not caught totally unawares, and has her pistol pressed to his heart, ready to fire. He may have had the quickest draw, but Sif always had the more accurate aim.

“Don’t test me, Loki,” she speaks between clenched teeth, angry at his devilry and angrier still at herself for letting him pull one over on her. “Your luck has all but run out.”

She can feel the heat of him, pressed against the bars across from where she’s trapped. Up close like this she can see that his cheekbones are more pronounced than she’s ever seen since he cut dirt and ran. She considers new lines that have been worn into the corners of his eyes, and the overrun length of his hair, but thinks to herself that he still looks like the Loki she knew, the one she fell for.

“You proposed that I join your ranks,” he tilts his head in thought, “but I propose you join mine. Come on the run with me, give into that untamed thing that’s always been inside of you. You always were one of the best gunslingers the West has ever seen. Think of the fame you could earn.”

“I’d never dream of it.” She digs the barrel of her gun deeper into the leather of his coat.

“I reckoned not, but it was worth a try. How about we make a deal,” he tugs the chain tighter, grinning down at her like a coyote admiring its kill. “I propose an arrangement that is agreeable, nay- satisfactory, to the both of us.”

“That you release me and I don’t put a bullet through your chest?”

He chuckles but continues on. “I will agree to no more holdups, no more bootlegging until the ground thaws in the springtime,” he pauses and Sif feels her heart hammer when he tilts his head down, his face hovering near hers in the small space between bars. “In exchange for a kiss.”

She can’t stop her eyes from wandering down to look at his lips, feeling his warm breath against her skin as close as they are now. The flashbacks to all the times they’d rolled in the hay together also rise up unbidden, yet not totally unwelcome, making her stomach swoop. On the days when the fires of her anger for him dwindled, it was the memories of the way he’d held her, enveloped and entwined, on cold nights that would rekindle her drive to track him down, her pursuit.

“You can have your kiss,” Sif whispers, tilting her head up. She watches Loki’s eyes flutter. “Tomorrow. At your Mama’s house. There’d be no better Christmas present for her than if you joined us for dinner.”

Loki’s shoulders fall and he pulls his face away from the rusted metal bars. A small twinge of satisfaction runs through her at his poorly hidden disappointment.

“And how do you expect me to be at the ranch house,” he pouts, “when you have me locked away in here to suffer?”

Sif steps back and twists against the cold metal at her hips. He lets the chain drop free and pulls his hands back into the cell.

“The townsfolk think your horse has eight legs because of how fast you can ride off with your stolen spoils. I’m sure they’d believe a tall tale about how you escaped in the night with some magic powers.”

Holstering her gun, Sif saunters to pick her own hat up off the desk, pushing it down against her smooth black hair. “Goodnight, Loki.”

Sif turns to leave the jailhouse, the glint of her keys catching Loki’s eye from where they’d been dropped near his boots, and the deputy smiles to herself.

 

* * *

 

Snow is falling lightly outside, and Sif stands in the elegant farm house with a mug of warm mulled wine grasped in her hand. A sigh escapes her as she examines the contents of her cup. She'd risen early to ride down to the town square and to the jailhouse. The cell was empty this morning, with the door left open wide, but there’d been no sign of him since, the new snowfall obscuring any would-be tracks. 

Shaking her head in an attempt to dispel him from her mind, she turns her attention across the room and gazes upon her second family. The fire dances warmly across their faces as they enjoy the merriment of the day: Odin reading the paper on the sofa with Thor nursing his mug from where he leans against the wall, watching his mother play Christmas carols from the grand piano.

Sif hadn't the heart to tell Thor nor his parents of what she’d done, the risk she’d taken. Sif thought it would be cruel to give the family false hope. Or maybe she wanted to protect herself. Standing here now, she feels foolish. She'd let a wanted criminal escape over sentimentality and an offer that it seemed would go unfulfilled.

She is pulled abruptly from her thoughts when the small rapping at the pane of the front door makes her jump nearly out of her skin. Looking up across the room towards the front porch, Sif can see a tall shadow darkening the frosted glass of the door.

She doesn't move, frozen in place, leaning against the doorframe of the parlor’s entrance, helplessly watching Frigga leave her piano bench and her spirited carols behind to open the door. A cold billow of frosty air rushes into the room, revealing Loki standing on the porch in the fading daylight. He holds a basket full of what appears to be fruits, and candies, and little wrapped packages under one arm, but he is stiff and alert, like a trapped animal about to run. Sif can feel the tension in his body, the strain in the room as both Odin and Thor stand up and stare.

“Merry Christmas.” His voice is quiet, unsure, and he lifts a hand to tip the brim of his hat in greeting.

Frigga’s cry of surprise and joy breaks the suspense. She throws herself into Loki’s arms, and he stands awkwardly, carefully bringing one arm around his mother’s waist and swaying into her embrace.

“Loki! _Oh_ , my Loki,” Frigga leans back and reaches up to hold his face between her hands, looking him over. “Is this real, am I dreaming?”

Loki smiles softly. “I’m truly here.”

“Brother.”

Loki stiffens upright at Thor’s approach, apprehension clear upon his sharp features as his mother pulls away. Thor stands with clenched fists near his sides and they size each other up. Suddenly Sif thinks for a moment that Loki will flee again. Instead, he allows Thor to embrace him and pull him out of the cold, although he does not move his arms to return the gesture.

Sif’s heart warms at the sight of Thor with his hand holding the back of Loki’s neck, his booming laugh pulling a small smile out of his brother. Even Odin offers a nod to Loki before making his way towards the dining room. At that, Loki’s shoulders relax, and he steps more fully into his home.

Still clutching at her heart and fluttering her hands, Frigga rushes into the kitchen and calls for Thor to follow her to help set another plate at the table, leaving Sif alone with her fugitive.

Slowly, Loki drops the packages, likely bought with his stolen money, sets his hat on the chaise, and swaggers across the carpeted floor to face her, tilting his head in greeting.

“You look mighty pretty in that dress,” he reaches a hand out as if to touch her maroon skirts, but stills his hand. “You’re a true Christmas vision.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Do not mistake me and think that it means I am any less armed than I am in my trousers.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Loki grins down at her. “You been standing here all day?”

“More or less,” Sif shrugs and takes a long pull from her mug. Loki plucks it out of her hands and downs the rest before setting the empty cup on the bookcase over her shoulder. It makes her heart race faster than a jackrabbit at his nearness. Observing him this close, she notices that his hair has been trimmed, not cut as short as it was before, but some of the length is gone. She can smell aftershave. It would appear he’s been to the barber.

“I’d like to discuss our bargain.” He steps closer into the door frame, turning one of his hands palm up. “If it’s still on the table.”

Sif considers him, taking him in from head to toe. His boots appear to have been buffed and shined, his waist coat freshly laundered. The look on his face is optimistic but guarded.

“If you can promise to make it until spring without giving me a reason to hunt you down.” Sif leans her back against the wood of the doorframe and juts her chin up. Loki follows her gaze, spotting the mistletoe hanging above them. “Then my offer still stands.” She looks into his eyes.

Loki raises his hand and pushes it earnestly against his chest, not looking away from her gaze. He leans closer, his whispered breath ghosting across her lips. “On my life, I promise. You have my word.”

The name Silvertongue flashes into her mind for a moment, and she knows he may well be lying, bluffing her. She still doesn’t fully trust him, but for now, for this one blissful moment, his word is enough. She searches his eyes, bright in the dancing light of the fire across the room for but a moment, then nods, pulling away from the wall to stand upright, bringing their faces nearly level. The sound of her thrumming heart fills her ears, veiling the crackle and pops of the the firewood. She reaches up, brushing a thumb against his cheek before sinking her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck. The touch draws a sharp intake of breath from him, and then Loki closes the small space, pressing his lips against hers, his hands falling hesitantly to her hips.

He kisses her deliberately, thoroughly, the caress of his lips softer than she could ever recall. It   _thrills_ her. He was right, what he’d said to her in the jail cell; she does crave a challenge, seems to be drawn to danger. She gives over to that side of herself, feeling a tingle down her spine, losing all other worries to the long and lingering way he kisses her.

When they break apart, slow and languid, she feels light-headed and off balance, and is grateful for the arm Loki snakes behind her back to keep her held close.

“I must say, that was a fine deal.” His voice is low and sinks into her, making heat curl in her belly. “A better prize than most of the fine gold and jewels I’ve encountered on my wanderings.” The way his chest heaves and his eyes are blown wide brings smile to her face. “Tell me, Deputy, are you open to negotiating further?”

“I think I might be,” she tugs at the hair still wrapped in her hand and matches his salacious tone, feeling her body burning at the places that are pressed against him. “Name your proposition.”

“How many more kisses might you bargain if I behave until June?”

“Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.” She raises a brow at him. He leans closer.

“Oh, my _intentions_ should not be doubted,” The obscene way he whispers in her ear makes the heat curl deeper in her, still.

Sif borrows his technique, ghosting her lips against his ears. “Make it Independence Day, Silvertongue, and you’ve got a deal.” She twists her free hand into the collar of his coat.

“You’ve got a deal,” Loki nods, and steps forward, crashing his lips against hers again and sending her back knocking into the doorframe.

Sif’s fingers tangle up in his dark hair pulling him ever closer, while his long hands move in slow paths from her hips to her back and beyond.  The way he kisses her this time is different, albeit no less dizzying and full of urgency. His teeth graze her lip and she pushes her hips against his, drawing a soft moan from him. She kisses him harder, matching the eager, near-desperate pace of his mouth on hers.

 

They carry on until the sound of someone clearing their throat loudly from the parlor jolts them apart. 

“Dinner is waiting,” Thor’s rumbling voice is chiding, although not fully surprised, “if the two of you have concluded your holiday greeting.”

Sif rights herself, trying to smooth down her hair, smooth down her skirts and ignore the blush creeping to her cheeks. Loki just chuckles, looking completely unashamed. Sif stomps on his foot. “Right, thank you. We’ll join you presently.”

Thor departs the room again, shaking his head. Loki grabs at his foot, whining.

“ _Ow,_ Sif!” He hops on one leg, reaching one hand out to balance himself on her shoulder with his face twisted up.

“You’re an ass, Loki,” Sif rolls her eyes at his theatrics. “But I’m glad you came tonight.”

She means it sincerely. Loki stops his bellyaching and straightens up, his hand gripping her shoulder tighter. He looks into her eyes and smiles. “As am I. Even if you are determined to cause me bodily harm.”

Sif shoves him playfully, heading across the parlor. “You enjoy the attention.”

“Guilty,” he laughs and springs forward to follow her into the dining room, his hand on the small of her back.


End file.
